


Where We Stand Still

by Yuripaws



Series: Zine Pieces [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 05:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16570595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuripaws/pseuds/Yuripaws
Summary: Meanwhile, in a different timeline, Yuuri challenges Viktor to one more season -- as his rival instead of as his coach.Written for Issue Two: Time of the Yuri on Ice Litmag.





	Where We Stand Still

**Author's Note:**

> Today's the day we can post our pieces from issue two of the litmag! I was asked to pinch hit right before the deadline, so I reached into my bag of endless ideas and decided on this soft rivals au <3

He’d known from the very moment their eyes had locked. He could see it in his expression, in the rigid outline of his frame -- as frozen in place as the ice beneath him, the ice between them that spanned miles of empty and achingly lonely space. He’d known, though he’d fought not to believe.

_ You don’t remember. _

Eyes that hadn’t been able to settle on blatant shock or prickly wariness. Face flushed. Jaw dropped. None of these had quite added up to the welcome Viktor had been expecting. He’d dared to dream of a more pleasant greeting from the man who had so brazenly challenged him, so boldly stolen his heart, so quickly vanished without a trace.

Yuuri Katsuki hadn’t remembered the banquet after the Grand Prix Final in Sochi, hadn’t remembered the pair of them dancing the night away, hadn’t remembered how close he’d gotten, how familiar, hadn’t remembered every little touch that had sent shivers down Viktor’s spine. Or every little word that had changed his life.

And in that moment, in a place where time had stood still, Viktor had heard the words again, though Yuuri’s lips had been pressed into a thin and indecipherable line before he’d turned away. Still, Viktor had heard the words -- the same words that had been repeating endlessly in the depths of his tortured mind since that night. The night Yuuri had drunkenly challenged him to one more season -- as a rival.

_ “I’ll train every day until I can beat your world record. Come to Detroit, if you don’t believe me!” _

What other choice had there been? How could Viktor have resisted those bright and shining eyes, that gleeful smile and determined aura? How could he have done anything but scramble to pack his bags after watching that daring imitation of his own program? Yuuri’s video had been a calling card -- of that, Viktor had been certain. And so he’d put his plan into action. He’d been dared to come to Detroit.

And so he had.

And Yuuri had turned away from him.

‘He’s just shy’ had been the only shred of reason Viktor could attempt to grasp, the only compress he could clutch to the open wound in his chest to stop the bleeding, to stop the beating of the desperate song beneath his ribs. He’d been so prepared to finally fly free, only to be pinned to the spot where he stood upon the ice, more alone than he’d ever felt in his entire life.

And maybe it hadn’t been his brightest idea -- dropping his old coach and flying out to the US to train under a new one. A bold yet sometimes necessary move for a skater who felt stagnant, but an admittedly stupid one for a man who was simply in love.

Not that he’d ever really understood something like love. But it had to be the golden sparkle of champagne, the feel of blood rushing to his cheeks, the catch of his breath and the moment of stunned realization, and it had to be the frantic, exhilarating, and utterly stupid thud of his heart in the dark, alone and awake in his room -- unable to think of anything other than warm brown eyes and slightly slurred words. What else could love have possibly been?

He’d like to think that he’d learned the answer over the course of that long summer, but the idea of anything in his life going according to plan since that fateful night had been the world’s unfunniest joke. From the moment he’d glided over to Yuuri to “introduce himself” at the rink they’d be sharing, every sly wink, every charming grin, every word dripping from his lips in a suggestive purr all seemed to have had the exact opposite effect he’d wanted. 

Because Yuuri had been shy. Yuuri had been starstruck. Yuuri hadn’t remembered. Or had he?

Why else had he avoided him so often? Why else had he always seemed so scared, so unnerved, even when Viktor had been at his friendliest? And why had Viktor so often caught him staring across the rink, staring in the locker room, staring as he left for the day?

Or maybe Yuuri hated him.

This is something he asks himself still, even now within the quiet and cozy confines of his hotel room, the setting sun throwing the last of its dusky rays over the man dozing beside him. As his gaze trails from Yuuri’s mussed black hair to his slightly bitten lips, another question comes to mind. Not a particularly new one by any means, but one that mystifies him all the same.

_ How did we get here? _

He wishes it were as simple as ‘we danced all night and he spilled champagne on me before demanding we become rivals,’ or ‘he skated my program and I took it as a sign of his undying love and rushed right over,’ or ‘being rinkmates became talking became getting dinner became flirting became frantic kisses in dimly lit corners,’ but the truth of it isn’t so easy to explain. Nothing is easy when Yuuri is involved. Even now, with the soft pad of his thumb brushing the corner of Yuuri’s mouth, his brow furrows in his sleep, the uncertainty lingers, and Viktor pulls away.

When a different but no less familiar question rises to the surface of his mind the way bile rises in the throat -- rapidly, unexpectedly, and burning everything in its path -- he quashes it immediately. He keeps his eyes locked on Yuuri’s chapped lips and summons happier memories to lay across his tortured thoughts like a salve, like a cool kiss to feverish skin.

He’s kissed those lips. Or rather, in the vivid memory that comes to mind, those lips had kissed him. The night he’d slid over to Yuuri as they prepared to exit the ice, the both of them the last ones training in the rink, Viktor had expected many things. The usual blushing and stuttering at his shameless flirtations, or the much sought-after invitation to dinner. The familiar back-and-forth they had going on, the intimate pattern they’d fallen into with each other.

What he’d gotten, however, had been his back pressed against the low wall of the rink, and Yuuri’s face much closer than he’d ever dared to dream possible. It had been a short and slightly uncomfortable kiss, lips dry and noses freezing, but it had taken all of Viktor’s strength not to melt straight through the ice, hands gripping the edge of the wall for dear life as his knees nearly gave way. Yuuri had pulled away slowly, puffs of white breath mingling between them, before mumbling a quick apology and rushing off the ice to gather his things and leave. Viktor had needed several eternities to feel his legs again, and he’d spent most of that night with his fingers pressed to his lips, staring at the ceiling and wondering in stunned silence.

The kisses after that day had gotten decidedly less short and less uncomfortable as the weeks went on, but Yuuri had still remained the first to break them, the first to turn away and leave. It’d been as though they’d found themselves a pocket of time and space in which nothing else mattered, but Yuuri had always been the first to step back into reality. And although Viktor hadn’t sensed any animosity in his odd rival -- aside from the way his eyes burned through him as he watched him skate -- the one question still remains. The one that claws its way to the fragile surface and disturbs the quiet peace of their Barcelona hotel room.

_ Does he hate me? _

A stupid question, of course. Yuuri’s strong will to succeed and his steely resolve to exceed Viktor’s highest accomplishments merely point to rivalry and healthy competition, not something as strong and poisonous as hatred. Especially not now, with their legs still intertwined, the sweat still cooling on their skin, the marks peppered across their necks and shoulders barely beginning to fade.

But if anyone in this world were to hate Viktor Nikiforov, it would be Yuuri Katsuki.

Being someone’s lifelong idol inevitably leads to some sort of resentment, in the end. You either far exceed their expectations and remain untouchable; a deity never to be surpassed, never to truly be known on any personal level -- or you become the opposite: a disappointment.

And surely Viktor had been some level of disappointing. Hardly ever the aloof and suave god he appeared to be in public, Viktor had been nothing short of an entire disaster when he’d barged into Yuuri’s life. Outrageous, flirtatious, ridiculous, and often as drunk and naked as he was allowed to be in any situation -- it’s a miracle that Yuuri still has any shred of respect left for him at all. His old rinkmates certainly hadn’t, once they’d gotten to know the real him, and his previous coach would likely rather lose his remaining hair than suffer any future second-hand embarrassment due to his insane shenanigans.

At least Viktor had managed not to let Yuuri down on the ice. Striving to fit his expectation of the ideal rival, Viktor hadn’t wasted a single moment showing off the skill only a five-time world champion could possess. He’d realized, at some point during his first attempts at getting to know Yuuri, that this might make him an even greater target for his hatred, especially once the season started, and  _ especially _ after medalling above him in their first competition as official rivals at the Cup of China. 

An absolute fool of an idol that still manages to outshine anyone and everyone. How could he not be utterly  _ infuriating _ to every skater in the world?

And yet Yuuri had still tugged so playfully at his gold medal, his own silver glinting in the light, and had kissed him breathless, the two of them hidden away out of sight of any nosy reporters. And then he’d casually invited him to hotpot with some of the other skaters, chewing his bottom lip as though he’d actually thought that Viktor might say  _ no. _

Yuuri Katsuki is nothing short of an enigma, and Viktor tries and fails to wrap his mind around him every day.

As if hearing his thoughts, Yuuri stirs beneath the blankets and inches closer. When he’s close enough to bury his nose into Viktor’s collarbone, he lets out a tiny huff, effectively turning Viktor into a useless puddle of affection. He has enough sense left to wrap his arms around his waist, at least, but doesn’t dare do anything more. His mind is still in a whirlwind, memories of soft kisses and piercing gazes and gold medals and the taste of Yuuri’s skin. The taste of his name in Yuuri’s mouth, the sound of it raising the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Viktor,” Yuuri mumbles, voice thick with sleep, and Viktor shivers. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he attempts in a smooth purr, but Yuuri’s head jerks up and nearly cracks his jaw, startling any semblance of charm out of him.

_ “MORNING?” _

“Kidding!” Viktor says quickly, running soothing hands up and down Yuuri’s back and thrilling at the feel of the raised skin his nails had left in their scrabbling wake an hour prior. “It’s still today. You knocked out pretty hard, though.”

Yuuri groans and presses his face back into the crook of Viktor’s neck. “You  _ scared _ me. Jerk.”

Yes, the last thing either of them needs is a late start to the first day of the Grand Prix Final. But they’ve certainly got time left in their day, with the entire long winter night laid out before them.

The world itself is laid out before Viktor now, and he cradles it in his arms and draws it near, inhaling the scent of sweat and shampoo and Yuuri. Two words he’s long forgotten the meanings of float serenely to the surface of his consciousness, but plummet down along with his gut as Yuuri gently extracts himself and rolls away. He sits up and reaches for his glasses, giving Viktor an apologetic half-smile over his shoulder.

“I should probably head back to my room. It’s getting late.”

“You hate me,” Viktor mumbles morosely, flopping onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. He’d been aiming for ‘funny and melodramatic,’ but it falls flat, and an odd quiet settles over the room.

Seconds tick by -- or maybe eternities -- before the mattress dips slightly, and the warmth returns to Viktor’s bare and lonely side. Cool fingers stroke his hair, a gesture so deeply familiar that it feels like being home again. Viktor lowers his arm to find that Yuuri’s expression is one of mild concern and apprehension.

“You really think that?”

“Just a joke,” Viktor responds, thrown off his groove -- as he so often is whenever Yuuri is so near. He tries to wink at him, but something catches in his eye and clouds his vision. Blinking rapidly only makes it worse, and he manages one last glimpse of the alarm in Yuuri’s face before it blurs from view.

The comforting hand across his burning brow brushes aside his silver fringe further, and a shadow falls across his face. Yuuri is leaning closer, gazing down at him, watching as the tears well up in his eyes and run down his cheeks, staining the pillow beneath him. His expression is frustratingly unreadable, and Viktor feels a familiar helplessness at not knowing what he’s thinking.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve never seen you cry before,” Yuuri says after an awkward pause, and at least has the decency to look sheepish when Viktor shoots him an affronted glare. “Sorry! I’m not making fun of you, I swear. I just… this is a surprise.”

“Well, I’m a person, and I cry sometimes,” Viktor grumbles, though not with much certainty. He often forgets just how ordinary he is, forgets that he’s human and allowed to feel. Yuuri makes him feel, and although he’s not always sure he likes the strange new sensation, he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. 

But what does Yuuri feel?

“You can hate me,” Viktor blurts, and Yuuri’s smile spreads, then flickers, then dies when he realizes it isn’t a joke. “You can feel any way you like about me, Yuuri. Just...”

_ ‘Stay,’ _ he wants to say, but the word catches in his throat along with the hundreds and thousands of other sentiments that have never quite made it to his lips.  _ Please stay, _ he urges silently, and Yuuri, as though reading his thoughts again, does exactly that. He settles right back down, back into the space that had been made for him, the space they had made together, back into Viktor’s yearning arms.

“I don’t hate you,” he says softly, resting his chin atop Viktor’s head. “Why would I hate you?”

“Someone has to,” Viktor mutters, and feels Yuuri’s throat vibrate with laughter. He presses a quick kiss to it, and the taste is salty and sweet. “They can’t all love me. They can’t all be my biggest fans. Someone in this world has to hate The Great Viktor Nikiforov, especially once they find out who he really is.”

“The Great Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuuri muses, and Viktor hears the smile creeping into his voice. “You mean the same Viktor Nikiforov who drinks too much shochu and strips in the middle of restaurants?”

“Yes.”

“The Viktor Nikiforov who impulsively travels halfway across the world without any warning?”

“Yes.”

“The Viktor Nikiforov who shows up to the rink in the middle of the day, hungover as hell, and still manages to blow everyone away with his skating?”

“Yes, him.”

“I don’t think I hate him at all,” Yuuri decides, then lets out another short laugh. “Though, I guess it would be pretty easy to, with a guy like  _ that _ as your rival.”

Viktor is still, quiet, letting Yuuri speak and letting himself feel. The world around them seems muted, dull and frozen, as if they were far removed from it. He closes his eyes and clears his thoughts, making space for Yuuri’s words and Yuuri’s feelings alone.

“When I was younger,” Yuuri starts, sounding a little distant, “I always felt like people didn’t take me seriously. They loved and supported me, of course, but… well, there’s this feeling you get when others are  _ too  _ nice, where you wonder whether or not they actually believe you can achieve your wildest dreams. My best friend, Yuuko, was always one of my biggest supporters. But when we were just starting out, it always felt like she was letting me be better than her, even though I really wasn’t. When everyone knows your biggest life goal is to skate on the same ice as a champion prodigy, they go easy on you. So you don’t get discouraged. But that’s not what I wanted.”

Viktor nods to indicate that he’s listening intently, though he can’t exactly relate. He can’t remember a time when anyone had ever taken it easy on him. He had to be perfect, had to strive beyond every ideal expectation placed upon his young shoulders.

“Our last Grand Prix… that was a wake-up call, I think. I had technically achieved my goal, right? To skate on the same ice as you? But it wasn’t enough. Being the top-ranked skater in Japan wasn’t enough. Advancing to the Final wasn’t enough. I felt unknown, lost in your shadow, and the way I saw it in my dreams -- being on equal ground, being taken seriously as your competition -- just wasn’t happening. I made a decision after the Final, after placing last. I could have given up, and I almost did. Almost quit. But I decided I’d skate one last season, and this time, I wouldn’t let others go easy on me, and I wouldn’t go easy on  _ myself. _ ”

“And then I showed up?” Viktor prompts gently when Yuuri falls silent. He pulls back to look him in the eyes, and is relieved to see a softness in them that makes his heart flutter. He wonders if Yuuri can hear his heartbeat, singing so desperately for him. Yuuri only smiles.

“Yeah. You showed up, and I couldn’t figure out if it was my greatest dream or my worst nightmare.”

Viktor lets out a surprised bark of laughter, squeezing Yuuri slightly in his arms. “Yeah? Still working that one out?”

“Maybe,” Yuuri teases, then quiets briefly before continuing on a much more earnest note. “You were what I needed. Someone who wouldn’t make my life easy. A challenge. Someone who could get me to show the world the kind of skating I truly thought was best. A real rival, in every meaning of the word, you know? Except…” he trails off, suddenly embarrassed.

“Hmm?” Viktor’s hands, positioned at Yuuri’s waist, give him another light squeeze, slow and deliberate -- just like the mischievous smile spreading across his face.  _ “Except?” _

“Well,” Yuuri says, much less composed than he’d started out, face flushed and eyes darting back and forth. “Well. You’re…  _ you.  _ S-so… you know…”

Viktor leans in slowly, delighting in the way Yuuri grows flustered with every inch he draws nearer, and catches his trembling lips in a deep and searching kiss. When they pull away, Yuuri is stunned, breathless.

“Yeah,” he whispers shakily. “Um, that.”

“Wow! You  _ like _ me,” Viktor teases in a sing-song voice.

“Viktor -- we just -- I mean,  _ of course, _ why else --” Yuuri sputters, face a nice solid red. Viktor wants to smother it in kisses, but manages to refrain. For now.

“Oh, my Yuuri,” Viktor sighs dramatically, noting with great pleasure the small smile return at these words, “you don’t know how  _ long _ you’ve been confusing my poor heart.”

“I could say the same,” Yuuri counters, though his entire demeanor is brimming with indescribable tenderness. “You’re weird, Viktor. Not like I expected. But that’s what I love the most about you.”

And something unfurls within Viktor’s chest, something warm and glowing and entirely unlike the quiet dread that had always made itself home there. The words ‘life’ and ‘love’ come to mind, rising gently to the surface like the dawn of a new day. Simple words, until he realizes that he’s never understood their true meaning. Not until now, not until Yuuri had taken him by the hand, by the heart and soul, and showed him.

Slowly, Viktor takes Yuuri’s right hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the ring finger reverently. He murmurs something he’s never said to anyone before -- a timeless phrase whispered against his lover’s skin -- and when he looks up, he sees it shining in Yuuri’s eyes. A sentiment he doesn’t have to express, words he doesn’t need to speak.

“I love you,” Viktor says again. Not because he wants an answer, but because he wants to say it as many times as he can within this lifetime, and in any and all lifetimes to come.

Yuuri, as he so often does, surprises him.

“Take me sightseeing.”

Viktor’s incredulous smile falters when he realizes Yuuri is serious. “Er. Right now?”

“We’ve been in bed since practice ended,” Yuuri says, stroking Viktor’s cheek. “I want to see Barcelona with you.”

His eyes are bright in the way Viktor has come to know intimately -- it’s the look Yuuri gets about him when he’s determined and has a plan of action. He’s made up his mind about something, and Viktor, as usual, is ready and willing to be swept along. And although he feels slight reluctance at the thought of leaving this bed -- this room, this corner of time and space they’d made their own -- to return to reality, to the world of competition and gold medals and rivalry, he follows Yuuri without question into the heart of Barcelona.

The night is young, and they have all the time in the world.


End file.
